If you haven't, please be sure to read "Promises of an Addict" before reading THIS! It shows what happened six years ago, and Edward's behavior will make much more sense, I promise. :)
He speaks but I don't know what to say back. A part of me wants to go over to him, grab him, and cling on; the other part (a much bigger part) wants to deck him. I go for the silent treatment instead. It's silly and immature, but it's all that I can do to stop myself from hitting him and making things worse. It's not like before, like six years ago; I'm not going to immediately cradle him and baby him—not when I don't even know what happened to cause it this round.
"A-are you jus' gonna stand there?" he asks, worry in his voice.
I give him my answer by taking a seat on the couch that he's on—in the farthest corner that I can get and still be on the couch. He looks over at me and frowns; he knows I'm pissed off, upset, because he runs a hand through his hair, messing it up even more than it already is.
"I'm sorry," he says, looking at me.
I pull my legs up and rest my arms on my knees, crossing them—my arms. I watch out of the corner of my eye as he slides towards me and takes the spot next to me; I can feel the heat that radiates off of him, and for a moment I wonder if he's sick.
Oh, he's sick alright, my brain quips.
He reaches up and moves some hair that loosened out of my ponytail during the nap out off my forehead, and I get up without a word and walk into the kitchen.
I take something out and start on dinner.
"Here," I say, putting a plate of piping hot homemade Mongolian Beef in front of Edward in the living room.
"Oh, so now you're talking to me finally?" he quips as I sit down.
I roll my eyes and take a sip of apple juice.
"Thanks, but I'm not hungry," he says, pushing the plate away.
I shrug. "Suit yourself."
I know that he's not eating because I'm pissed off and he knows that I am—I know this because I'm the same way—in other words, he feels guilty.
As he should, I say to myself.
I eat even though I'm not very hungry myself. When I'm done, I go into the kitchen and take Edward's plate with me, putting it on the counter for whenever he wants it—I'm not that mean. I'm putting the rest of dinner into a large container when I hear him walk up behind me; I continue doing what I do, not wanting to do this right now. Edward being himself though, just has to take it a step or three further. He wraps his arms around my waist and holds me close, whispering in my ear—right now, they're sweet nothings to me.
"Let me go; I gotta put this in the fridge," I say in a emotionlessly.
I feel so much, though; I'm also so fucking tired—in more ways than just one.
He ignores me, keeping his arms around me, tugging me closer and wrapping his arms tighter around me.
"I'm sorry," he tells me, his lips at the top of my left ear.
I don't want his sweet-torturous apologies, he apologizes every time; I want a fucking explanation that I'm not even sure he can give.
I manage to get wiggle out of his hold and go to the fridge and stick the food in there, and then walk to the entryway.
"Your food is on the counter for whenever you decide you're hungry enough to eat," I say quietly.
I don't wait for him to respond; I head for the bedroom and get ready to sleep. It's still early enough—only 9:30—but all I want to do is climb into bed and get cozy—but something tells me that Edward has other plans in mind. I strip out of my jeans, leaving just my underwear and his shirt on. I go into the bathroom that connects to the room and wash my face clear of any make-up and grease. I take my time brushing my teeth and hair, and when there's nothing else left to do, I'm forced back into the room where I see Edward is perched against the doorjamb. I pull down the comforter and sheet on the bed, getting ready to get in.
"You look good in my clothes," he comments from the door. "Then again, you always have."
His comment rubs me the wrong way, and I pull off his t-shirt, throwing it on the floor near the bathroom entrance. I'm left in just my bra and underwear now, and I feel completely naked; he's seen me this way plenty of times since we reconnected, but tonight it feels different—it feels almost wrong in a way that I can't explain, pinpoint.
"You're going to sleep already?" he asks when I crawl into bed.
I nod.
"I'm tired—long day," I say quietly.
He walks further into the room and stops the foot of the bed, resting his hands on it, leaning into it.
"Um, 'kay; never mind then," he says.
I let out a long sigh.
"What is it, Edward?" I ask him, exhausted.
"I was wondering—hoping—that maybe we could talk?" He phrases it like a question.
I close my eyes for a moment, and try to pretend like this isn't happening. It's not that I don't want to hear what he has to say, because I really do; I'm curious beyond belief as to what spurred this recent episode on, but I know that if we talk tonight, it's only going to wind up turning into an argument, and one or both of us hurting the other one.
I shake my head. "Not tonight, Edward; I'm too tired."
He blinks a few times, and he looks fucking miserable, like I'm rejecting him in some way—maybe I am.
Well, join the fucking club, buddy, I think.
"Please, sweetheart? You don't have to say anything; just hear me out?" he offers, like that solves anything and everything.
I rub my hands over my face, trying to figure out how to respond without this turning into a fight; I doubt that there's a way, though, so I just respond, saying, "No. Whatever you have to say, it can wait until morning."
His hopeful look that he's been wearing since he walked to the bed falls.
I roll my eyes. "Don't gimme that. I've been waiting a day and a half almost—I think that you can wait just a 'lil longer 'til morning," I snap.
He straightens his posture, stepping away from the bed.
"Okay, damn; you don't have to be that . . . brutal, mean. Jesus," he says.
I run my fingers through my hair.
"Stop looking to start a fight, okay? Just . . . don't." I yank at my hair, frustrated.
"I'm not," he says, indignant.
I roll my eyes. "Right—sure you're not; my mistake!" I nod.
"Y'know what," he says, backing out of the room. "Maybe it was a mistake to come back here."
I nod, dropping my hands into my blanketed lap.
"Yeah, maybe it was." I don't mean a word of what I'm saying.
Sadness, anger, indignation takes over his face and he smacks the doorjamb on his way out, saying, "Damn it—fuck!"
I sit there for a few minutes, not thinking, not doing anything except breathing. Finally, I turn out the light and pull the covers over my body up to my chin.
It's 2am and I'm still awake. My brain won't shut up enough to let me sleep. Memories of how Edward and I used to be take over my mind, and I cry. I sit up and hold my sides, sobbing, trying to be silent about it; I don't want him to hear me. Eventually though, I let out a noise that even I don't recognize—it sounds like I'm choking; if Edward heard me, he doesn't do anything about it. I finally cry myself into exhaustion, and lay back down, and try to sleep.
Around 2:40, I hear him come in. I watch from just above the covers as he strips down to nothing but his boxers, and then slowly crawl in next to me. I go back and forth, debating between making him think I'm asleep or just sitting up, when I feel him envelope me in his warmth. His chest is warm but his arms are cool; I cover him with the comforter, and now he definitely know that I'm awake—I don't care, though; I miss him too much. I turn over and into his embrace, smothering my own face into his chest. His body fit, but not overly muscular; he started going to the gym when he was in rehab; he'd told me last year when I asked him about it. He silently holds me, both of us listening to the sounds of our breathing in sync with each other's; his fingers run up and down gently-lightly over his shirt that I put back on half an ago because I'd gotten too cold.
He starts to sing in my ear—a whisper.
Well it's been building up inside of me
For oh I don't know how long
I don't know why
But I keep thinking
Something's bound to go wrong
But she looks me in the eyes
And makes me realize
And she says "Don't worry baby"
Don't worry baby
Don't worry baby
Everything will turn out alright
I know that it's his way of a peace offering, like a truce kind of. I sigh and wrap my arm around his neck, tugging him closer, covering me.
"Jus' lay with me tonight," I say. "We'll talk more later."
I feel him nod, and some of the tension that's been residing in him since earlier leaves his body when he hears my words. He sighs.
He presses a kiss just under my right ear.
"I love you." He kisses my jugular.
"I love you." He kisses my pulse on my throat; I swallow and he licks.
"I fucking love you, and I'm so, so fucking sorry, sweetheart," he says quietly against my mouth.
My hand goes to his hair and I wrap my fingers in it.
"Sshh," I say, and kiss him.
I seek entrance into his mouth and he grants it without hesitation. After a moment, I pull away and he leans in to rest his forehead against mine; his eyes hold worry, sorrow, and apologies.
"I love you too . . . so motherfucking much," I say, and he smirks.
We fall asleep holding each other, and when I turn over onto my stomach, our fingers link, lacing together, and his leg comes up, going over my legs.